


Alla Stoccata

by tell_tale_heart



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blacksmith Apprentice Marco Bott, M/M, Prince Jean Kirstein, prince!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tell_tale_heart/pseuds/tell_tale_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Jean has led a relatively sheltered existence.  He has rarely been allowed permission to leave the “safe” Sina walls which house the royal family and other prominent nobles.  One day, however, he convinces his father to let him carry out an errand in Stohess district.  There he encounters Marco, the blacksmith’s son.  From there, he begins to learn about life beyond Wall Sina.  About living conditions for the poor.  About making friends.  About love.  About revolution.  And most of all, about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [izumisart](http://izumisart.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Check out the tag prince!au on their blog to see the amazing artwork!!
> 
> Some of the chapters might be slow going at first, because I'm still developing ideas for the fic, though I have a firm idea of which direction I want to go in, in terms of plot. 
> 
>  
> 
> Mercutio:  
> O calm dishonourable, vile submission!  
> Alla stoccata carries it away. (draws his sword)  
> Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?
> 
> Romeo and Juliet, III. 1. 68-70

The rain outside was falling steadily with no signs of stopping anytime soon. A kind of heavy precipitation that would soak you to the bone if you so chose to venture outside for more than ten seconds. Still though, the sound of birds chirping outside was faintly audible through the closed window, cheerful in their morning song. The very top of a cherry blossom tree was visible through the glass, its pink blossoms contrasting with the gloom of rain clouds that pervaded the sky. All signs of spring returning once again to the kingdom of Sina.

Not like Prince Jean would be able to see very much of it.

But it wasn’t with a bitter frame of mind that Jean viewed the outside world from his worktable. The prince wasn’t one who ever indulged in bitter thoughts. Instead, it was more of a gentle wistfulness. A deep-seated longing to get out and see more of the world outside Sina’s walls. To hear the excited voices of small children at play. To see the bustling of daily activity in the huge towns of Maria and Rose. To smell the fresh air of the countryside beyond the outer walls. More. MORE.

Sometimes the heavy ache kept him up at night, dreaming of a day when he could accompany some of the nobles on errands outside of the first wall. Maybe one day, when he became king, he could even see the outside world. But he knew that it was probably just a fool’s hope--he knew his own father never stepped foot past the kingdom's three daunting, protective walls. And upon entering into discussion with his royal parents about the subject, the answer was always a very firm no.

They were worried about his safety, they said.

Everywhere he went within these walls, one of the three members of the Princely Guard was either within a few paces of him or just outside the door. Prince Jean thought it was overly much to have such a protective detail on him at all times. At times, it made him overwhelmed that he couldn't just _be_. On a couple of occasions, he had tried to convince his parents that he could visit the home of his cousin by himself--the estate was a few miles away within Wall Sina. But he was not granted permission unless one of the Guard accompanied him. And he was a very dutiful son.

Jean sighed softly, tearing his eyes away from the window and turning back to his studies. It was disrespectful to waste his tutor’s time with idle fancies. If there was one thing his parents and teachers had been able to instill in him, it was the guiding force to do the right thing. To be respectful. Because he represented the future of his family in terms of being its monarch one day, and thus should not act in a way that would tarnish the family name of Kirstein. And so he had proven throughout his childhood and while a teenager that he was not the type of child to disobey. Never talking back. But he was always thinking. Always dreaming. The thought of "What if . . ." or "How does . . ." always on the tip of his tongue.

"Your Highness, you seem distracted today. May I inquire about your concerns?"

Jean's soft brown eyes looked over earnestly at his personal tutor, Ethan, a man who had 20 or so years on him. He had instructed the prince since he had been a child, an expert on all subjects that were pertinent for a future king to learn. His hair was a smattering of dark brown curls, with the occasional grey strands showing at his temples. He was very good-natured, usually with a gentle smile on his face when he spoke with the prince. But right now his eyebrows were pulled in, a worried frown marring his features. He had paused in correcting the prince's history composition.

"I apologize, Ethan. I did not realize that I was so obviously preoccupied. It will not happen again." Jean turned back to his arithmetic determinedly. _Logarithms, focus on logarithms_ , he told himself.

"Your Highness. . . I am always here to offer counsel, should you need or desire it." Ethan was still looking at him steadily. The prince considered him for a moment, and then set his pencil on the table, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

"Ethan, will I ever be able to persuade you to address me as Prince Jean? You have instructed me for many years now. And the two of us are the only occupants of this room. There is no need for the formality."

Ethan recognized the prince's attempt to stall for time by changing the subject while the teenager organized his thoughts over what was prominent in his mind. Though he did appreciate the sentiment behind the prince wishing to be addressed less formally.

"Well, Your Highness, as you know, the preservation of rank is very important. It is true, as you say, that the two of us are currently the only two occupants of this room. Let us imagine that I did take you up on your offer and address you as. . ." here Ethan gestured with his hand at the prince, nodding his head politely at him, "Prince Jean. This would become a habit for our daily lessons. And something, once learned as a habit, is often hard to break. As you know, the kingdom of Sina regularly has visiting dignitaries, nobles, and other distinguished individuals. What impression would I make if I slipped and addressed you informally as 'Prince Jean' in front of them?"

Jean frowned slightly. "They might not take us very seriously."

"Correct. That is why it is very important that we do things in such a way that we do not forget who we are and the way we ought to conduct ourselves." The prince looked down at his hands, thoughtful.

"Besides," Ethan continued, this time with a small smile, "I do already address you somewhat informally. Your proper title, as you well know, is 'Your Royal Highness.'"

Jean nodded. "Thank you, Ethan. As ever, your wisdom is appreciated."

Ethan inclined his head politely once more. "And now, Your Highness. Is there anything you would like to discuss?"

The prince tapped his fingers on the table top, then remembered that it was impolite to fidget and laced them together once more. "Ethan . . . how . . . how can I persuade my father to grant me permission to visit the land outside of Sina's walls?" Jean looked at his tutor, worried that the question might not be appropriate to ask. But Ethan merely thought for a moment, fingers brushing against his smooth chin as he considered how to answer the question.

"Your Highness, you will be coming-of-age in a few weeks. At that time, as the heir apparent, you will have your coronation and recognized officially as the future king of Sina. So that when the sad and inevitable day comes when your royal father ceases to be living, you will go on to rule." Jean nodded. None of this was news to him, but he listened attentively to Ethan all the same.

"His Majesty, King Marcel, has informed me that as part of your studies, after your coronation, you shall begin to learn the art of rhetoric. More specifically, when it comes to the speaking component. Mastering this discourse is a necessity of any ruler. There will be times when your council argues strongly against your perspective on significant issues. It is important, then, to be prepared to civilly counter their argument with your own opinion." Ethan focused more intently on the prince, taking in his attentive expression.

"I see no reason why you shouldn't have a brief lesson on rhetoric today. You have already demonstrated great talent with your written work. It is just a matter of transferring those skills into an oratory presentation. Now. What is the first step you must take when preparing to persuade?"

"Consider your audience," Jean said immediately. He had always been a most astute student.

"Right. In this case, your audience will be your royal father and most likely, Her Majesty, Queen Sylvaine. Now, when writing a composition, it is necessary to consider your audience, so as to temper your tone and words with what is appropriate in order for your argument to be successful. When speaking, it is much the same thing. For this example, let us consider your royal parents. Do you think that you would be more successful in convincing them by appealing to their emotions or their logic?"

Jean didn't have to think about that either. "Their logic." Ethan nodded in agreement.

"By choosing that path, you will have to come up with a strong reason or reasons why you think it would be beneficial for you, as the heir apparent and future King, to visit any land immediately beyond Wall Sina."

"I will have a reason at the ready."

"Excellent. What is the next step to consider when addressing an audience, whether it be in a composition or in other forms?"

"Counter-argument."

"Precisely. It is always necessary to acknowledge the presence of your audience's reasons for arguing against your point of view. This is so that, if or when they speak after you, you have already disarmed their argument. In this case, why might your royal parents be against Your Highness going to an area of land beyond the wall?"

"They believe that it would not be safe for me. That I would be attacked or killed." Jean didn't understand why his parents thought that was even a possibility. He had only been beyond Wall Sina on a couple of occasions, albeit it was when he was hidden in a carriage and a curtain had been drawn, but nothing had happened to him either way. He hadn't even talked to anybody--so why would someone want to hurt him? The future king who wanted nothing but to continue making the kingdom prosperous and happy for all?

"If that is their counter-argument, it will be necessary for you to use logic again, this time with a credible means as to how you can convince them you will be safe. You must understand though, Your Highness, that you will be the next ruler of Sina, and the outlying lands of Rose and Maria. Your royal parents have no other children, and they love you most ardently. It is understandable that they are primarily concerned with your safety." Ethan fixed the prince with a stern look, communicating the importance of what he was saying to his royal pupil.

Jean hung his head. Was this just a selfish pursuit on his part? To go gallivanting about beyond Wall Sina just to satisfy his own personal need to do something exciting? Maybe--in part. But he really believed that he would be safe--he had not given anybody a reason to harm him. And in order to be a good ruler, he needed actual experience outside of Wall Sina. It is one thing to be told "this is a thing" and it is another to know it.

"Your Highness. I felt it necessary to tell you that, not to make you feel guilty, but to have you consider the weight of what your royal parents are feeling. It is not an easy thing to be a parent, I am sure. Therefore, if you so decide to discuss it with His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen, your reasons to justify your personal safety must be strong. To put them, if not entirely at ease, then at least with the belief that they can reasonably believe nothing ill will befall you."

The prince looked up slowly, meeting Ethan's light blue eyes determinedly. "I think I can do that. Thank you, Ethan."

Ethan nodded his head politely. "Of course, Your Highness. And now, only your arithmetic remains for your studies today."

Feeling uplifted about the possibility of traveling beyond Wall Sina, Jean once again focused on his studies. Tonight, before he fell asleep, he would put all of his efforts into coming up with a convincing argument for his parents.

 

* * *

 

Jean stretched the next morning after he awoke, gazing out of his bedroom window. The linen long-sleeves of his bedshirt fell up his thin arms to the tops of his shoulders, revealing pale skin. It appeared as if it would be a beautiful day today. Perhaps the weather would hold for a few days more, and he could convince Ethan to hold their lessons outdoors. He undid the latch on his window, pushing it open slowly, and then leaned on the sill. The air was warm, fresh. The pungent smell of heavy rain having penetrated the earth was still in the air, and it invigorated the prince. He breathed in deeply, eyeing the sun that was freshly risen. A slight breeze ruffled his short, light-brown hair, then flowed through the airiness of his night-shirt. He looked down, briefly amused, for it appeared that he was inflated to three times his normal size.

Below, servants were already at work, talking quietly amongst themselves. He saw Marion and Emma, two women who were in the service of his mother, trotting toward the castle's main entrance. No doubt that they would be serving the breakfast to him and his parents shortly. Off to the right, Annie, one of his Princely Guard, was returning to her quarters where other members of the household guard trained and resided. She must have had the night watch. Jean wondered vaguely if it were Bertholdt or Reiner that would be following--guarding--him today.

There was a soft knock at the door, followed by a click and the sound of footsteps behind him. Jean didn't bother to turn his head. It could only be one person.

"Your Royal Highness, good morning. How may I be of service?"

It was the same mantra every single day. Fabien was his personal attendant. He was the son of one of his noble uncles, on his father's side. He had the misfortune of being a second son. His elder brother, Acelet, would be the one to inherit the lordship of Karanese district in a little under a week. However, it was a distinct honor to be in direct service to the future king. Fabien had received extensive training on attending to Prince Jean's possible and varying needs, along with advanced swordsman lessons. One day, he would be captain of all the household guards, even overseeing the future king's personal guard. The prince trusted him implicitly--they had played together as children. They were related by blood. And were there any bonds stronger than that of blood relations?

That made Jean think of The Lady Historia Reiss. He and Historia were to be betrothed a few weeks after his 18th birthday, which also happened to be in a few short weeks. The time to that date was flying closer, circling around Jean, feeling almost like . . . a cell. And then their wedding was to take place before the harvest in the fall, at some point after her own 18th birthday. Would they, as husband and wife, at some point feel strongly bonded to each other?

The prince had met Historia on a couple of occasions. To be true, she was very beautiful. Her hair was like woven pieces of sunlight, and her eyes were carved pieces of a summer sky. Her disposition was continuously cheerful. What wasn't there to like? In terms of an arranged marriage and the horror stories Jean had heard weaving about, he should feel entirely lucky to wed such a woman as she.

And yet . . .

He didn't . . .

"Sir? Are you . . . quite alright?" Fabien's voice was politely concerned, and he took a few steps closer to Jean who had remained fixedly gazing out the window.

At his attendant's words, the prince roused himself from his somewhat melancholy thoughts and fixed his face into one of courteous contentment.

"Quite well, thank you Fabien. I will be breakfasting with my parents, as usual. And then later, before my morning lesson, I would like you to arrange Gervaise to be readied." Gervaise was his horse, a gorgeous black thoroughbred.

"Very well, Your Highness. I will inform Bertholdt before I depart."

Of course, Jean thought. Bertholdt would be accompanying him, as a member of the Princely Guard, wherever he went. Swallowing down the remains of these negative thoughts, the prince managed to nod at his attendant. Fabien retrieved the prince's dressing robe, a silky blue with gold threaded in to create the shape of the Kirstein's coat of arms. Jean's attendant slipped the robe over the prince's narrow shoulders, moving around to fasten it closed at his waist.

"Thank you, Fabien."

Fabien merely nodded, and then stepped aside. As a general rule, servants were not normally thanked for their services. It was what was expected of them, their lot in life. But the prince had deeper sentiments than most, and never hesitated to bestow thanks upon someone who provided a service for him.

The prince stepped into his slippers, and then moved into the corridor of the east wing, as Fabien held the door for him. Bertholdt was already at attention, and the three of them wordlessly began to walk toward the breakfast parlor of Jean's parents. The prince walked in front, with Fabien behind him and slightly to the right. Bertholdt never let there be more than the distance of three paces separate him from Jean.

"If there is nothing more, Your Highness?" Fabien spoke up as they reached the king and queen's quarters.

"Nothing more at this time. Thank you, Fabien."

Fabien bowed slightly, and then stepped back, no doubt waiting to speak to Bertholdt about the prince's intention to ride his horse later. Bertholdt assumed his place outside the door of his parents' extensive quarters, with another guard for the King and Queen occupying the opposide side.

"Ah, good morning, my dear son," Queen Sylvaine crooned as Jean walked in, rising from her seat at the table. The prince obediently walked over to her so that she could kiss him on the forehead. He was now noticeably taller than his mother, though his father believed that he was still growing. The prince returned the gesture of affection by gently taking his mother's hand, kissing the tops of her knuckles. It had been the same routine ever since he could remember.

Jean made his way back over to a seat on the opposite side of the table, directly across from his mother. Her hazel eyes twinkled affectionately as she looked across at her son, a soft smile playing at the edges of her mouth. Time had not yet marked her dark blonde hair with grey, so that she looked years younger than in her late 30's.

"Good morning, mother. Is father not coming today?" Marion and Emma entered the room as he spoke those words, pushing out a cart of coffee and juice. They knew the habits of the royal family, and began pouring out glasses or mugs of each.

"He will be here shortly. Juste had some time-sensitive matters to discuss with him in private."

Jean nodded. Juste was his father's top attendant, the current captain of the guards. As a child, Jean had been terrified of the man, for he had a fearsome countenance. He had served in one or two battles during his youth, and wore the scars on his body to prove it. Jean couldn't help but eye the ghastly one on his right cheek each time he saw the man.

The prince poured some fresh cream into his coffee as his mother and he made idle chit-chat. This was the one time each day that he got to interact with his parents without interruption from anybody else. Otherwise, there were servants or noblemen and Jean wasn't able to speak freely in front of them. Maybe today, maybe at breakfast, he could convince them to grant him permission for a small excursion outside of Wall Sina.

Even though he would receive his coronation in a few short weeks as "rex junior," the title held no actual ruling power. It just solidified the fact that he would become King of Sina one day, a formality for something that was already highly regarded as fact. He would be in the same situation then as he was now--beholden to his royal parents and their wishes. Though he did want to speak with them at some future point about being more lenient. Coming-of-age in Sina, or turning 18, was usually understood to mean that one was an adult. Jean fervently hoped that if he was allowed to go on a short excursion now, and returned without incident, then his parents would be more lenient in the future in terms of 'trying to keep him safe.' He would show them that they did not have anything to worry about.

" . . . very good, Your Majesty. It shall be settled by tomorrow at dawn," came Juste's deep voice. The prince looked up to see his father and Juste entering the breakfast parlor. The presence of his father's attendant at breakfast was not wholly out of the ordinary, though they usually settled their morning matters before the king came into the parlor. King Marcel took his usual seat at the head of the table, putting a hand over his wife's smaller appendage and nodding at his son.

"Good morning, Jean."

"Good morning, father."

King Marcel was a broad sort of man, though not overly tall. He had light-brown hair and eyes, the exact same shades as the prince, though Jean seemed to have inherited his mother's thinner and lankier frame. The king was not of the talkative sort. He spoke when he thought it was necessary--frivolity was not in the forefront of his psyche. And thus many a breakfast passed when Queen Sylvaine was the one who spoke the most, gently chiding her son into eating more bacon or asking him about his lessons with Ethan. Jean, somewhat of an internal sort himself, always respectfully answered his mother's questions, ever the dutiful son.

"One last thing, Your Majesty. The smallsword that you have commissioned for Lord Acelet for his investiture is now complete. I will be departing tomorrow to Stohess, mid-morning, to collect it from the commissioned blacksmith."

Jean's head snapped quickly to his father, his interest in the conversation having increased tenfold.

"Juste, dispatch another of the household guard for this task. Your presence is needed to oversee preparations for Lord Acelet's ceremony. I cannot spare you."

The attendant opened his mouth to speak, but Jean beat him to it. "Father," the prince said earnestly. Juste frowned slightly, not approving of the prince interrupting their conversation, but not in a position to say anything about it. King Marcel turned to look at his son, surprised but not disapproving.

"Yes, my son?"

"Since you cannot spare Juste, I can go in his stead. I am well-versed in the quality and worksmanship of smallswords. Baldoin has taught me a great amount about swords, and I have inspected quite a few in the armory under his tutelage."

Silence.

Jean grew slightly anxious, awaiting his father's immediate reaction to his proposal. The prince chanced a glance at his mother. There was a crease between her eyebrows, worry lines appearing on her face, mouth drawn in slightly into a frown. Now she looked somewhat older. His eyes flicked up to Juste, whose expression was mostly inscrutable. But Jean had known him his entire life. He could see the slight narrowing of the man's eyes, the stiff way in which he stood near the king. He didn't approve. Lastly, Jean looked back to his father. King Marcel took a sip of his coffee, slowly setting the cup back on its saucer. Whether he was actually considering what Jean had requested, he knew not. And the prince suddenly did not want this decision to be easy for his father.

"Father. For my whole life, you and mother, along with my tutors, have been grooming me for a life as a future king. Yet how can I be expected to rule a kingdom if I haven't even seen it? Haven't been amongst the people? Do not understand the needs of society?" Jean spoke earnestly, but respectfully. He did not want to make it sound as if he were lecturing his father about how to rule.

King Marcel sat back in his chair, elbows drawn in to his sides, fingers laced together. Jean recognized the position, the seemingly relaxed posture. A few times, the king had requested Jean's presence at the weekly council, so that he could gain an idea on how to handle important matters of state. He had observed his father sit this exact way just before shooting down a proposal, and the prince's heart sank.

"Jean, I do not doubt your eye for quality nor your sincerity in desiring to be a knowledgeable ruler. However, as you know, the issue of your safety still remains. Going beyond Sina's wall is dangerous. There is a criminal element present that does not exist within Sina's walls. These times are especially perilous for a prince. Especially for you." As he spoke his last words, the king finally looked to his son. His brown eyes were calm, confident that this would be the final word on the subject.

Normally, Jean would listen to his father's judgment without stopping to question it. But this time . . . it just didn't make any sense.

"Father, I understand you and mother would worry about my safety. And that going beyond Sina's walls would greatly increase those concerns. You mentioned that leaving Sina would be dangerous for me. However, can anyone ever be truly safe in their surroundings? Even here, in the castle's surrounding land. Something could always happen to me--I could grievously injure myself while riding Gervaise or practing with Baldoin at swordsmanship. Or someone of this 'criminal element' you spoke of could pose as a servant and gain access to the castle, with the intent to harm." Jean paused, realizing that this might not be exactly the best way to convince his parents--he might cause them to elevate their overprotectiveness. His mother's eyes had widened and she had frozen in her seat, eyes on her only child. The king, however, had raised an eyebrow as Jean spoke. The prince did not know whether or not that was to his benefit.

"Furthermore, I have been taught that strategic attacks of any sort are usually well-thought out. And that they take a considerable amount of time to align all of the resources and decide the best time to put it into place. If I were to go into Stohess in place of a servant, the citizens would have no prior knowledge of it. They would have barely enough time to realize who it is they are seeing. And what are the odds that I would run across someone that participates in criminal activity *and* wishes me harm? I am well-trained at defending myself, as are the members of the Princely Guard. Any one of them that would accompany me could handle multiple attackers at once."

King Marcel eyed his son shrewdly, and there was a moment of silence before he spoke. "You have thought about this for a while."

"Yes, father."

The king sat up and sighed. He sipped at his coffee, and then glanced at the queen. Their eyes held for a moment. Wordless communication passed between them, and then King Marcel turned back to his son.

"Very well, then. I am proud that you put a lot of thought behind your position on the issue. You will make a brilliant tactician one day, Jean." The prince smiled slightly at the compliment, barely allowing himself to believe that his parents were granting him permission to perform this errand.

"I have several conditions, however," the king continued sternly. Jean nodded, willing to go along with his father's request if it meant he would be allowed to go beyond Wall Sina.

"First. You will go directly there and back. No loitering about. No stopping to explore. Juste will inform you of the blacksmith's location and provide you with the compensation for the sword." The prince glanced up at the attendant who nodded grimly at him. Or maybe it wasn't grimly--maybe it was just how he looked.

"Second." Jean looked back to his father, who continued to look entirely serious. "Upon your return to the castle, you will report to Juste with the smallsword and inform him of any troubles that you may have encountered along the way."

"Third. You will be accompanied by not one of the Princely Guard, but by all three-" Jean's mouth opened of its own accord, a protest on his lips before he could even think that it was improper to question his father in that way. "And that is not up for debate. Do you accept these conditions?" All three adults looked at the teenager.

He had no other option, if he wanted to take this on. The prince nodded. "Yes, father. I accept the conditions." He held back a smile of happiness, choosing to take a bite of toast instead.

"It is settled, then. You will leave tomorrow after breakfast."

They resumed eating their meal, the mood a little more subdued than usual. Jean eventually excused himself from the table, and left the room. Once in the hallway again and headed back to his quarters to change, a jubilant smile lit up the prince's beautiful face. He had scarce been this excited about something before.

Back in the breakfast parlor, the queen sat silently at the table, her appetite having vanished when her son voiced his desire to go into Stohess. The king squeezed her hand gently, and she looked up. "Do not fret," he said with conviction. And then turning his head somewhat to the side: "Juste?"

"Your Majesty."

"Have him followed tomorrow."

"It shall be done."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean visits Stohess District. And gets help from a new acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I'm so sorry it took me a very long time to post this second chapter. But here it is! Credit again to [izumisart](http://izumisart.tumblr.com) for their art (check out the prince!au tag!) 
> 
> Hopefully I'll stop being a slacker and get these chapters up quicker. Thanks again for your patience!

After breakfast the next morning, Jean tried to contain his excitement as Fabien helped him get dressed for his trip to Stohess District.  He wasn't overly expressive when it came to showing his emotions, choosing to internalize his feelings.  And the prince had been taught since he was a child that a member of the nobility ought to rein in overly excitable feelings so as not to appear mercurial in front of others.  So he was confident that his attendant wasn't able to observe any changes in his behavior today in comparison to how he carried himself on any other day.

"If I may say so, Your Highness, you seem quite excited about your journey today," Fabien commented, retrieving Jean's ornamental short sword and fastening it around the prince's slim waist.

Or maybe he wasn't fooling anybody.

But then again, Fabien had been his attendant for five years now, and before that, they had often played together as children.  So perhaps he just understood the subtle changes in Jean's countenance more than most.  And when it was just the two of them, Fabien most likely found it acceptable to make these observations known.

"I am," Jean replied simply, trying to sound neutral.  He considered his reflection in the mirror.  Both of his parents had insisted that he be dressed in his formal attire, as befitting his station as a member of the royal family.  The prince had not argued, feeling as if he was already walking on eggshells, and that one word of protest would result in the whole thing crashing down around him.  So Fabien had brought out his dark blue trousers and matching sleeveless shirt, the latter lined with gold thread.  Over this he would be wearing a jacket in a hue of blue that was several shades lighter than the other articles of clothing.   Even though spring had returned to Sina, the air was still chilly in the mornings and at night, so his attendant made sure he was properly dressed.  His last accoutrement was a a gold chain of an earring that Fabien attached to his left ear.  It made a tiny tinkling noise as he moved his head.  All members of the royal family had this particular ear piercing.  It had been a tradition dating back to the very first kings of Sina, to show everyone who the victors were in times of war.  Jean, however, found it to be mostly a nuisance.

Fabien regarded him stoically, and then took a step back.  "I wish Your Highness fair weather on your travels today, and a safe return to the castle."

"Thank you, Fabien."

There was the sound of Jean's bedroom door opening, and then Queen Sylvaine came gliding gently in to see her son off.  Fabien bowed respectfully, and then exited the room.

"My son," the queen said softly, taking Jean's hands into hers.  "Will you promise me to be careful?"

Jean met his mother's pretty hazel eyes, and smiled gently at her.  "Yes, mother.  I promise."  He wanted to tell her that there was no need to worry, but he knew that it would not dissolve his mother's concern over his safety.

The queen nodded, her face showing a sense of relief.  It was clear that she had faith in her son's good judgment, in absence of trusting the citizens outside of Sina's walls.  She ran her hands slowly down the velvet of Jean's blue jacket, as if to smooth down a wrinkled piece of clothing.  "You look handsome, my dear."  Her brow wrinkled in thought, as if considering what she wanted to say next.

"Mother?"  Jean asked quietly.  "Are you alright?"

The queen exhaled slowly and then smiled.  It was a sunshine of a smile,  the kind that made servants rush to do her bidding because of the sweet nature of her temperament.  "Yes.  Jean, I must say, I am very proud of you."

"Proud of me?"  This was not the first time his mother had said these words to him, but they were a rare enough occurrence to marvel over them.  When he had mastered the French language--or enough that he knew everything that Ethan did on the language of his ancestors--his mother had also then shared her sentiments on the matter.  And when he had demonstrated his skill with a bow and arrow, his teacher had insisted that he was a master marksman.  Then, too, had his mother shared her pride in her son's abilities.

Queen Sylvaine beamed at her only child.  "I am proud that you have become an outstanding young man.  That you are brave in the face of the unknown.  And that you remain curious about everything beyond the walls, wanting to learn all that you can."  She now took his face in her hands, pausing as she examined Jean's features.  "I love you very much, my son."  She kissed his forehead then, and with a last small smile for the prince, she started to leave the room.

"Mother!" Jean called as she opened the door, the aged wood creaking on its hinges.  She turned an inquisitive brow to him.  "I love you too."

The queen seemed to sparkle at her son's sentiment, and then she left him alone to complete any last preparations for his journey.

 

* * *

 

Jean set out towards the east, in the direction of Stohess District, with his Princely Guard in tow.  Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie were silent behind him, again not allowing more than the span of three paces to separate them from their prince.  Even though access to the land within Sina's walls was restricted, they remained ever vigilant, having taken a vow to protect Jean at all costs.  

Each one of his Guard seemed to have a specialized skill that allowed them some advantage over the common fighter.  Annie, though small in stature in comparison to the average person, was swift and struck with precision.  Jean had sparred with her on a number of occasions with practice weapons, and it was a rare feat when he was able to land a strike.  Bertholdt, on the other hand, was tall and gangly.  Though he moved much slower than Annie, he had the advantage of longer limbs.  He also had exceptional foot work, allowing him to surprise his opponent with his different attack styles.  Jean's last guard, Reiner, was also a different kind of fighter than his peers.  He was bulky with well-muscled arms, broad shoulders, and strong legs.  He could hold off an attack and often withstand his opponent's energy.  Then he would strike, having used the initial opportunity to observe his opponent's patterns and usually won out with the combination of brute strength and intellect.  When he thought about it, at times, Jean decided he didn't know who would have the ultimate advantage if the three sparred against each other at one time.  But they seemed to have been chosen for the Princely Guard due to the fact that they were each so different, and could use their skills to defeat any kind of enemy.

Servants and nobles alike gazed at the prince curiously as he walked with purpose past them.  He could feel the beginnings of anxiety pool up in his stomach, apprehension over the unknown.  He had never been allowed to leave Sina with the understanding that he had a task to complete, nor without many more guards as protection.  It was rather strange.  He didn't fear for his own safety.  Rather, it was just so completely different to anything that he had done before, that he almost didn't know how to act.  He fervently hoped that he would be able to complete the simple job of retrieving his cousin's commissioned short sword successfully, not wanting to cause his parents any disappointment.  Failure to bring it back would mean that there would most likely not be any other opportunities to prove himself worthy of being independent.

But it was mostly excitement that kept Jean's feet moving forward with deliberation.  There was something in the air on this day that just seemed different.  The slight breeze felt gentle across his face, and he caught the fragrance of flowers in bloom.  The sun was climbing steadily in the sky, warm and golden.  No trace of the rainy day from yesterday.  He felt himself gazing all around, seeing the familiar landscape with new eyes.  He felt freer than he had in a very long time, and it was invigorating.

After a short walk of about twenty minutes or so, Jean and his Princely Guard approached the gate to Stohess District.  During the day, it was guarded by two individuals, a strong wrought iron gate keeping back unwanted visitors.  At night, a stronger and thicker wooden gate was shut over the entryway, and a lone sentinel held the post.  Never had there been a breach in Sina's walls in recorded history, and Jean credited that continued statistic to his father's benevolent rule.

One glance at Jean's attire and face, and then a brief second glance to those who were accompanying him was enough for the guards to open the gate without questioning him.  Though those leaving Sina were never really challenged at the gate--it was more about who was trying to gain entry in.  Jean seemed to count the number of steps it would take until he was clear of the gate, eyeing the pavement on the other side as it got closer.

Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . ONE.

And then he was on the other side, and he closed his eyes for a moment to savor the memory.  He was outside of Sina's walls.  With only the Princely Guard in attendance.  It was as close to a liberating moment that he had ever felt before, and he breathed in and out slowly.

"Your Royal Highness," Annie said respectfully from behind him, "Should we not keep moving?  We don't want to attract more attention than we need to."

An almost silent sight escaped from Jean's mouth, and he nodded.  Not as free as he thought.  "As always, Annie, you are wise."  He reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a list of written instructions that Juste had given to him.  They detailed the way that Jean would have to take in order to reach the blacksmith's forge.  Though the wording was succinct, the instructions were still such that it would leave him with no questions on how to get to his destination.  

With a glance to his left, Jean headed in the direction of what appeared to be rows of homes packed together closely.  Each structure matched those on either side of it exactly, and Jean found himself wondering if the residents ever approached the home of their neighbor by accident.  He, along with the Princely Guard close behind, walked for some time.  Jean knew, from his lessons with Ethan, that Stohess district was the home to mostly the merchant class of citizens, similar to that of Hermina or Yalkell.  It was beyond the next set of walls, into the land of Rose, that one would encounter huge plots of farm land and irrigation sites.  

The prince followed the first set of directions to the letter, but took the time to gaze about him in wonder.  There were so many children running about, playing with other kids that seemed to be quite a few years older than themselves!  And there was a vendor selling . . . flowers!  He passed a bakery, the sweet smell of pastries baking wafting to the walkway, and Jean felt his mouth water.  Every step further he took, there was some new sight to behold.  He didn't even seem to see the way that people would move deferentially out of the way for him, mouths dropped open in amazement.  

"Did you see who that was?" asked one man of his neighbor.

"That was the Prince!" exclaimed a young girl to her mother.

"He's so . . . handsome," a young woman murmured to her friend.

But as the amount of whispers and eyes on the prince increased, Jean finally saw that he was the one that was the subject of their attention.  With a slight pink tinge to his cheeks, he looked down to his instructions once more, reading the next landmark he should be watching out for.  

_There will be a tavern called Fitzgerald's on your left.  Once you pass it, you continue on for about a quarter mile until you encounter a large fountain on your right._

Jean continued on, noticing that there were less people now walking around.  The houses were not as nice anymore, and he seemed to be entering a part of Stohess district that was considerably poorer.  A few children he happened to see now were wearing clothing that was patched and frayed.  Men and women that he passed still looked shocked to see a member of the royal family in their wake, but seemed tired.  There were patches of grass instead of long expanses of green.  

It was quite concerning for Jean to see, the gradual shift in the economics of the area.  Though nobody seemed to be starving or homeless, it was still quite a shock to encounter people who were obviously not in the upper echelon, financially speaking.  He, who had never been wanting for food or proper clothing.  His brow knit in thought, wondering what he could do to help.  Because there was no question about it, the prince wanted to be able to do something.  

The prince nodded to himself after the span of a few moments spent in thought, vowing to speak to his father about the situation.  He would be able to suggest something, Jean thought.  Looking forward once more, he saw the fountain that Juste had written about in the instructions, still some ways off in the distance.  The prince pulled out his instructions once more, and found the place where he had left off before.

_After you pass the fountain_

He was just about to read the next set of words when he saw a flash of beige out of his peripheral vision.  A male youth, about his age, came barreling around the corner and smashed directly into Jean.  The paper flew out of his hands, and the prince stumbled backwards, almost falling.  But there were suddenly strong arms righting him.  Reiner.

Jean watched as the stranger recovered himself, eyes goggling at the sight of someone from the royal family, and then continued on his sprint away from the area.  Two more teenaged boys came running around the corner just then, and without a word, Jean found himself suddenly standing behind Annie, with Reiner to his right and Bertholdt behind him.  The wall of someone's house framed him on the left.  On every side he was protected.  

"AND NEVER COME AROUND HERE AGAIN!!"  A young man with unruly brown hair and wild blue-green eyes appeared at the entrance of an alleyway, close by to where Jean and the Princely Guard were standing.  He was shaking his fist at the retreating figures of the three boys, a frown on his face.  As Jean watched, two other young people around the same age joined the teenager with the wild eyes.  A smaller blond boy with a fat lip and a nose bleed was eyeing them curiously.  And a taller, willowy girl with contemplative eyes and an inscrutable expression considered them, stepping in front of her two companions.

Jean felt embarrassed at having the Princely Guard surrounding him.  There didn't seem to be any immediate threat to his safety.  "It's fine," he said quietly.  "Let's go."

"Is that the Prince?" asked the first teenager, eyes wide.  "He needs to come through here with _three_ guards?"  And with that, the boy tilted his head back and laughed loudly.

"Eren, stop it," the girl hissed, her dark hair whipping as she turned to glare at her companion.  "Let's take Armin to see your father."

"Right."  The boy called Eren turned to his blond friend, suddenly sober as he eyed the trickle of blood flowing from the blond's nose.  "Mikasa's right.  Dad can take care of you.  C'mon."

Jean could see his guards tense slightly, each having a hand on the hilt of their sword.  The girl, Mikasa apparently, pushed Eren in front of her, and then reached back and gently grabbed onto Armin's forearm.  

"Let's go, Armin.  You're safe now."  The trio began walking away, crossing the path of Jean and his guards.  Jean could see the mirth in Eren's eyes, the vigilance in Mikasa's.  But Armin smiled politely at them despite his fat lip, his hand moving in a small wave.  Jean hesitated, but then waved back.  

The prince felt more than a little lonely just then.  It seemed as if everybody his age had friends, someone to rely upon. Except for him.  The three boys who had run away, Eren and his friends, even his own guards.  But he had nobody he could confide in--his cousins that he played with as children occupied roles within the hierarchical structure now, and they all reported back to his father one way or the other.  Even Fabien.  Never had Jean had somebody that he could say was his own to talk to without there being consequences or a lack of trust.  He had realized it years ago, of course.  But it hadn't hit home just how much he was alone, how much he was missing out on, until that moment.  Because he was able to see people all around him who surrounded themselves with friends, close comrades.  

Jean watched wistfully as the trio disappeared from his view, and then his three guards visibly relaxed.  He blinked a few times, realizing that he needed to focus at the task at hand.  As his trio of protectors moved aside to let him move forward, the prince searched the ground for the paper instructions Juste had given him.  And then he saw it.  It had blown away some ten feet or so, and was now submerged in a puddle of muddy water nearby.  

"No . . . " he whispered to himself, and made haste over to the puddle.  With his pointer fingers and thumbs, he delicately pulled the sheet of paper out of the dirty water.  The ink had completely smeared, and there was no way now that he could read the instructions.  The paper even started to tear apart as he examined it, and Jean sighed.  Bertoldt knelt next to the prince, and accepted the remains of the illegible instructions.  It would not do to have the prince dirty his hands or walk around with garbage.

"Your Royal Highness, shall we head back to the castle?  Seeing as how the instructions are now destroyed?" Bertholdt offered forth when Jean didn't immediately reveal his next move.

The prince felt a moment of dismay.  He hadn't read ahead to see what the last few steps said, too absorbed in looking around at his surroundings.  And he had never been in Stohess District before without someone else navigating for him.  He was totally unfamiliar with the area around him.  The last time he had even left Sina had been 3 or 4 years ago.  He sighed, feeling that this task he had asked his father to grant him permission to complete was over before it had even begun.

But it wasn't part of Jean's nature to give up easily.  He had the name of the blacksmith, a Mr. Bott.  He could find his way to the proprietor's forge by starting with the last step he had read, finding the decorative fountain.  And there it was, not too far off in the distance.  There was no way he was returning home empty-handed.  The future king of Sina should be able to use his resources, come up with a plan.  Not cave when his leg was kicked out from underneath him.

Jean stood and turned determinedly to the three members of the Princely Guard.  Bertoldt was frowning, concern written all over his face.  Annie was glancing around, keeping tabs on their surroundings.  But she looked impassive, perhaps knowing that one way or the other she would do her job regardless of the circumstances.  Reiner had his arms folded against his chest, a hint of a smile on his face.  As if already knowing what Jean would decide.

"We will continue forward," the prince said resolutely, straightening his shoulders.  He strode ahead toward the fountain.  He heard the trio of guards behind him, not questioning his decision.  Nor would they, seeing as how he was not in any immediate danger.  Had that been the case, it would have been the responsibility of one of them to get the prince back to the castle while the other two held off attackers.  Only then would their judgment supersede the prince's wishes.

They approached the fountain, and Jean stopped to appreciate it for a moment until they continued on their way.  It had a brick foundation, and was several tiers tall.  It was simply designed out of stone, maybe intended to be more a statement piece of "hey, look, it's a fountain" unlike their counterparts in Sina where the marble creations were more of an art piece.  Where summer parties would revolve near the display of vibrant flowers perched in pots around the base of the fountains.  And partygoers would sip casually on red wine while private conversations would be held and unheard through the background noise of the cascading water.  Still though, the consistent sound of the water flowing to the tier below was soothing to Jean's ears, a familiar noise in an otherwise unfamiliar land.  He began to move around the fountain slowly and, to his surprise, saw that there was a lone figure perched on the brick foundation gazing somewhere off in the distance.  A teenager.  A boy.

The prince approached the male slowly, not wishing to frighten him.  Because the teenager looked a little forlorn, nibbling slowly and disinterestedly on the heel of a loaf of bread.  He had dark brown hair--almost black, the length longer than on boys Jean saw in Sina.  Though it was combed neatly, it still seemed to fall softly around the crown of his head.  He had clearly spent a lot of time outside, his skin tanned and full of freckles.  Jean glanced fleetingly at his own pale skin, feeling self-conscious.  The freckled teenager still hadn't noticed the prince's approach, apparently caught up in his own thoughts.  So Jean felt free to continue his perusal of the teenager's singular profile.  

Wealth clearly wasn't in the picture for the tan teenager.  He wore a light brown tunic shirt that seemed to fit more like a burlap sack around his upper body, though it was very clear to Jean that he was quite strong.  His shoulders were broad under the tunic, and his upper arms were defined with musculature. The prince wondered what sort of occupation the stranger participated in that would allow him the opportunity to be so . . .well-made.  Jean also noticed that the freckled teenager's brown pants didn't fit well at all, a little too tight and it appeared that the hem would fall well above his ankles once he stood.  Both parts of his clothing were faded, as if they had endured many a hard washing.

Again, Jean felt a wash of shame trickle over him.  Here before him was a young man who most likely did not have many clothing options.  That had never once been a concern of the prince's.  He thought about how he had many different outfits, in varying colors and design.  He had riding boots, everyday boots, slippers, boots for when it rained, dress shoes . . .and yet before him sat someone whose shoes were threadbare, with a few small holes showing.  Why were people living like this?  Were conditions that bad throughout the kingdom, but not apparent to the lords of the districts?  What could he do?  

These thoughts swirled fluidly through his mind like a goldfish in a bowl, seeking to push the limits of his world.  He had stopped a few feet away from the seated teenager, momentarily forgetting his original motive for being in Stohess District.  Forgot about the guards at his back, encountering Eren and his friends, everything.  He was just Jean, a human being, exposed all at once to an example of what it meant to be a normal person not living as a member of the royal family.  And it ate away at him.  Why should he be any different?  Why should he have it all?  

Jean became agitated, the fingers on his left hand rotating the signet ring he wore on his right index finger.  If he had been less distracted, he would have reminded himself that it was impolite to fidget.  But as it was, he could not help himself, could not summon words to announce his presence to the teenager in front of him, who clearly had something on his own mind.  But as the moment continued on in silence save for the peaceful trickling of the water in the fountain, the freckled teen seemed to finally notice the prince's presence, and turned startled light-brown eyes on him.

With clumsy movements and a yelp of surprise, the seated male stood, streaks of crimson painting his cheeks.  In his haste, he dropped the remains of his bread, but he didn't seem to notice, his whole attention focused on the prince.  Jean came back to himself then, noticing that the male was a couple of inches taller than he was, and how the freckles on his face seemed to stand out even more because of his blushing.  He was quite . . . attractive?  This realization unsettled the prince, and he frowned uncertainly.

"Oh!  Your Majesty!"  the teenager quickly kneeled and bowed his head respectfully, "I apologize for not noticing you earlier."

Jean heard the stifle of a laugh from behind him, most likely from Reiner.  And the grating noise of a boot moving over the pavement.  Probably Bertholdt.  It was Annie who spoke, her voice as clear as a bell, her words inflectionless.

"That is not the proper way to address the Crown Prince.  You are to use 'Your Majesty' for the King and Queen.  When addressing the Crown Prince, His Royal Highness Prince Jean, you are to use 'Your Royal Highness.' And one does not kneel for him, they simply bow respectfully."

Now it was Jean's turn to be embarrassed.  He didn't like the ostensible formality that came with being the heir apparent.  But when he had told various servants and nobles in the past that it was not necessary, they had just looked at him in abject horror, opting afterwards to hold to tradition.  There was not really much he could do about it, and it frustrated him.  

"I am . . . so terribly sorry, Your Royal Highness," the teenager murmured earnestly, rising to his feet.  

"That is quite alright," Jean said, holding his hands out appeasingly.  "There is no need for an apology, I can assure you.  I was wondering if you would be able to assist me . . .?"

"Of course!  Anything for you, Your Royal Highness."  Jean grimaced briefly, but then forced a smile on his face.  The freckled teenager smiled politely in front of him, any traces of his former melancholy now gone.  "How can I help?"

"I am here in Stohess District on an important errand for my father.  He had a short sword commissioned for my cousin, and I am trying to find the blacksmith that forged it.  However, along the way, the directions to the blacksmith's workshop were irreparably damaged, and now I have no idea how to get there.  I do recall the blacksmith's surname.  Bott.  Do you know of any such forge in the area?"

The freckled teen lit up, his eyes excited and wide.  "I do know where that is, Your Royal Highness!  That is my father's forge.  I am Marco Bott, his oldest son."

Jean breathed out a sigh of relief, and then smiled politely.  "Ah, I am glad to hear it.  Would you mind telling me how to get there, Marco?"

"I can do even better, Your Royal Highness."  Marco continued to smile in such a way that his eyes crinkled at the sides, a dimple showing.  "I can show you.  I was just heading back there, actually.  Would you like to come with me?"

"I would, indeed!" Jean exclaimed heartily.  "I would be quite in your debt, Marco."

Marco's brow furrowed, his eyes widening in horror.  "No, no, no, Your Royal Highness."  He put his right hand on his chest.  "This would be my honor to show you the way."

Jean forced a smile, and gestured with his hand.  "I await your guidance."  With that, Marco nodded at him and then walked forward slowly, as if uncertain if he should walk ahead or beside the prince.  Jean answered that for him, falling into step beside the taller teenager.  He looked down at the ground, feeling a little sadness come back to him.  Everyone he came across gave him special treatment, from the beginnings of his blurry childhood memories to now.  There were always formalities to observe, a strict itinerary to adhere to.  Only his parents acted somewhat casually around him, and then only that when it was the three of them eating breakfast together without anybody else around.  It had been his favorite part of each day for a long time now.  

He longed to experience even just one day where he could be faceless in a crowd of strangers.  Or have a friend at his side.  But he knew that wish would most likely never come true, seeing as how his parents continued to restrict his traveling.  His mind wandered a bit, pretending that someone friendly like Marco could be his friend, and they could camp out in Rose, or visit the caverns Jean had heard about outside of Karanese District.  The prince sighed in disappointment at all that he could never have.

"Are you alright, Your Royal Highness?"  Marco asked worriedly, as they meandered through the city, taking a right turn here only to be followed by a left turn a few paces afterward.  

And then Jean felt that rush of shame overtake him again.  Who was he to complain?  In what way was it okay for him to lament not being able to have a friend or gallivant around the kingdom without a single thought to responsibilities when there were people like Marco who ate a piece of bread for lunch?  And had raggedy clothing?  He was being downright selfish, and he scrunched his eyes shut for a couple of beats, forcing the superfluous desires out of his head.  As the future ruler of the kingdom, there was no place for self-concern and frivolity.  His thoughts, his decisions should be based on the people.  Not on his childish wish for friends.  This was part of his reason for this task, after all.  To learn more about the kingdom that he would rule one day.  

Pushing aside his guilt and selfish thoughts for the moment, Jean said composedly, "I am.  Thank you, Marco."  He looked over at the taller teenager, being sure to relax his face into one similar to that of when he greeted dignitaries and noblemen.  A practiced politeness with an interested smile.  Marco gazed at him in concern for a moment, but then nodded.  It was not his place to voice distrust over what the Crown Prince said.

"It's just around the corner," Marco said quietly.  Some twenty seconds later they rounded the corner, and sure enough,  they were there.  The Botts' forge occupied a corner lot, and it was a shoebox-shaped orientation.  The walls were made of brick, and the door itself was a heavy wooden door.  Marco heaved it open, gesturing Jean in ahead of him.  The prince stepped inside, eyes wide as he took in his surroundings.  Behind him, Reiner followed him in, leaving Annie and Bertholdt outside to guard the entrance.

"Wow . . . " Jean said, amazed.  He had never been inside any kind of smithy before, and everything from the furnace to the tools to the swords hanging on the wall caught his attention.  

"It's not much," Marco said bracingly, shifting around on his feet.  

"Not much?" There was incredulity in Jean's voice.  "I find it fascinating."

"Really?" 

"Really."  Jean smiled.

"Well then, Your Royal Highness.  Would you like to see what I do here?"  Now Marco was excited, his eyes gleaming.  

"I would love to."

Marco motioned Jean over to a worktable, and Reiner followed the prince as he came to stand by the freckled teenager.  Jean watched as Marco seemed to be searching for something.  "Aha!" he finally said, finding some tattered gloves.  There were a couple of holes in the material, and Jean frowned as Marco put them on.

"Those gloves . . .they have holes in them," Jean pointed out in confusion.  Surely the scars on the blacksmith's forearms were a result of that?

Marco froze in the act of putting on his gloves.  After a moment, he looked off to the side, away from Jean.  "Yes, well, Your Royal Highness, we make do with them.  My father and I just take care to avoid touching that part of our hands to hot metals."  He spoke to the ground.

"Oh.  Oh, I see," Jean said, flustered.  He hoped he hadn't made an idiot of himself just then.  Or embarrassed Marco.  He didn't know why he had chosen to speak his thoughts like that. . . it had just . . . come out.  Maybe he needed to take greater care and filter his thoughts before he spoke.

"Um . . . Your Royal Highness, I will go and get my father.  Excuse me."  Marco bowed his head, and then made his way swiftly into a back room.  Jean watched him go away with crestfallen eyes, angry at himself.  He hadn't meant to hurt Marco's feelings.  

"Your Highness, we cannot linger overly long here," Reiner said dutifully from behind Jean, and the prince started, having momentarily forgotten that the guard had taken a spot close behind him. 

"I understand."  Jean moved away, eyes wandering around the room.  It was quite warm inside, due to the necessity of keeping a strong fire burning at all times during the day.  "Reiner . . . have you ever seen anything like it?" Jean asked, as he stopped near a rack of swords, examining the hilts without touching them.  He knew and felt how impolite it would be to touch that which didn't belong to him.  

"I have, on a couple of occasions, entered a blacksmith's forge," Reiner replied evenly, now standing near the window and glancing out before returning his attention to the prince.  "What does Your Highness think about it?"

"It's incredible," Jean breathed as he noticed the detailing on the hilts.  Marco now returned with an older gentleman that he bore a strong resemblance to.  The prince saw it in their shared hair color, the kindness in their eyes, the general shape of their bodies--though Marco's father had shoulders that were not as muscular as his son's.  

"Your Royal Highness!"  Mr. Bott came to stand in front of Jean and bowed respectfully.  "I declare, this is an honor I never expected to have in my life.   When my son told me who had come to pick up the short sword, I thought he was speaking in jest!"

Jean smiled genuinely, glancing at Marco.  The freckled male was standing beside his father, but his eyes were trained on the ground, his cheeks a bright pink.  "Mr. Bott, may I say, your workshop is most interesting.  This is my first time in any kind of smithy . . . and your craftsmanship is on a very high level.  The hilts of those swords show that a creative and talented mind was at work."

"Actually, Your Royal Highness, my son Marco is the one who worked on most of them.  I hope it isn't out of place of me to say that I also think my son is talented."  Mr. Bott's eyes were shining, a proud smile on his face.

"Father!" Marco seemed even more embarrassed now, and quickly looked at Jean to see how he was responding to his father's words.  

"Your father is right," Jean said, his hands clasped behind his back.  "From what I saw, Marco, your work is beautiful."

Marco opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  His cheeks were now redder than ever, and even by the light of the hearth, Jean could see the smattering of freckles across his cheeks.  The younger Bott blinked a few times, and then seemed to recover himself.

"Thank you, Your Royal Highness," he said slowly.  There was a momentary silence, and then Mr. Bott seemed to remember why Jean was there in the first place.  

"Marco, my boy, would you retrieve the short sword for His Royal Highness?"  Marco nodded quickly, and then made his way behind a counter of sorts, sifting through other items.  Jean found his eyes fixed on Marco for some reason, noticing the way strands of his hair seemed to fall in his face as he leaned forward.  How his lips pursed in a pout as he moved aside a couple of swords and then widened into a triumphant smile when he found what he was looking for.

"I have it here, father," Marco called, and then returned to his father's side.  He handed the sheathed sword over to his father carefully.

Jean gazed at it with wide eyes.  The scabbard was a dark blue and gold, the colors of the Kirstein house and coat of arms.  It featured a fine filigree pattern, weaving delicately in symmetrical swirls.  It clearly look a lot of time to complete the work on it, not to mention the immense skill and artistry behind it.  Mr. Bott smiled at the amazed look on the prince's face, and held it out to him.

"Would you like to inspect it before you leave, Your Royal Highness?"

Jean took it in his hands slowly.  "Inspect it?  It's perfect," he said breathily.  Mr. Bott beamed in pride, while Marco smiled shyly, his brown eyes keenly watching the expressions that crossed the prince's face.  Jean placed a hand under the hilt of the sword, noticing the intricate pattern on the metal up close.  

"Marco, did you do this?" Jean asked curiously.  He glanced up at the blacksmith's son, who nodded, humble.  "Well . . .," the prince continued, eyes back on the sword.  "You are superbly talented.  Thank you for creating something so wonderful for my cousin.  He will be thrilled to receive it."

"You--you are most welcome, Your Royal Highness."

The prince continued his perusal of the sword, drawing it out of its short scabbard.  He admired the acute taper of the blade, and offered up a question or two to Mr. Bott.  But then Reiner cleared his throat from his spot behind the prince, as a reminder that they were short on time.  

"Right.  I must be going," Jean said, sheathing the sword.  His excitement over his mini-adventure began to wane as he realized that he would be returning to the castle again.  But he reminded himself that his birthday was fast approaching, and he would be 18 soon.  And maybe, just maybe, he could learn more about the people that lived outside of Sina's walls.  Maybe he could see Marco Bott again.

Mr. Bott wrapped the sword in a cloth so that it did not get tarnished in any way on their journey back.  Reiner took it from the blacksmith once it was loosely wrapped in the cloth, holding it carefully.  The sword had already been paid for, but the prince insisted on providing them a generous tip.  Jean offered up his final compliments to Mr. Bott and Marco, and turned to leave.

"Your Royal Highness--do you know the way back to the gate?" Marco asked suddenly.

"Oh."  Jean frowned in thought.  "I guess so?  I'm sure I can manage." 

"That won't do, Your Royal Highness," Mr. Bott said, adjusting his glasses.  "You don't want to get lost in Stohess.  It would become a labyrinth to you.  Marco, you must show him the way back to the gate."

"Yes, father," Marco said dutifully, stepping to Jean's side.  The prince was about to protest, but realized he did need Marco's assistance in navigating back to the gate.  He thanked Mr. Bott and said goodbye, and then they were outside once more.

Jean saw that both Annie and Bertholdt were attentive at their post by the door, eyes keeping careful watch on passersby.  When he re-joined them outside, Annie's expression didn't change, but the prince saw Bertholdt's face relax in relief that they would now be returning to Sina.

Marco was silent at first as they began their walk back to the East Gate.  But after Jean asked him a few questions, he began chatting happily, which seemed to be his natural disposition.  The prince, who at first wanted to take in all the sights of Stohess, now found himself gazing at Marco instead.  If he had ever been able to have a friend, Jean knew he would want one like Marco Bott.  Kind, thoughtful, creative.  

"Do you live here in Stohess?" Jean asked, curious.  All around them now were rows and rows of the identical townhouses, and the prince wondered if Marco lived in one of them.

"Yes, Your Royal Highness.  My family lives in the northeastern section of the city."  Marco stopped talking for a minute, and Jean wondered if he had again asked or said something that had made Marco uncomfortable.  

"You mentioned before that you were the oldest son.  You have a younger brother?"  Jean decided to change the subject.  "I am envious, I must say.  I always hoped for a sibling."  It was the right thing to say, because Marco laughed lightly, and he smiled at the prince.

"Alex is a handful," Marco said indulgently, a fond look on his face.  "He's seven.  He's at this phase where he has question after question for us.  Sometimes I'm tempted to make up a silly story as an answer, and see if he notices.  But I'm no good at telling falsehoods."

Jean found Marco easy to get along with, and their conversation flowed easily between them as they approached the gate.  The freckled teen had questions of his own for the prince, and found himself, more often than not, amazed at the answer.  

"You have a horse?  I've never ridden a horse!" Marco exclaimed.

"Really?  Well maybe one day you could ride with me--"  the reply was out before he had thought it through, and then there was an awkward pause.  Because Jean never had visitors, never rode with anybody besides one of his guards.  It would be highly unlikely that his parents would allow him to have somebody over, let alone someone from outside of Sina's walls.  He frowned for a moment, unhappy with that realization.  It didn't sit well with him, the thought coiling in his insides like a jack in the box.  He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so happy around another person.  The simple pleasure of chatting about Marco's life was refreshing, as was learning all about how things operated in Stohess.

"Yeah, maybe some day," Marco finished for him, said softly.

They approached the gate a few minutes later, and Jean came to a gradual stop.  He turned his body to face Marco, and suddenly his hands were fidgeting again.  Fingers rotating his signet ring around and around and around.  

"I--I want to thank you for your services today," the prince began stiltingly, looking down at his hands.  "Without you, I may have never found my way."

"I wish to see you again, Your Royal Highness," Marco said quietly, low enough that perhaps even the Princely Guard could not hear.  Jean looked up, surprised.  And then Marco caught his left hand in his right, and bowed forward, bestowing a soft kiss to the prince's knuckles.

Jean blushed, he was sure of it.  He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and he found that hr could not speak.  But that didn't stop Reiner Braun.  

"Wrong hand, dummy," he said clearly in his baritone voice.  "The royal family receives that tribute on their right hand."

It was true--to a point.  Visiting dignitaries, noblemen and noblewomen, and the like all paid their respects to the royal family in this way when they were initially introduced or if in greeting at an important event.  But Marco was not a dignitary.  Nor was he saying hello.

Marco's cheeked burned with embarrassment at his blunder, and he straightened up.  "May I, Your Royal Highness?" he asked quietly, eyes on Jean's other hand. 

"Yes," Jean said in an almost-whisper.

Marco's eyes flitted up to Jean's for a brief moment, the curve of a small smile on his face.  And then the freckled teen was slowly reaching forward.  As Marco took the prince's pale hand in his own, Jean felt the warmth of Marco's loose grip, the calluses on the pads of each finger.  His face was still quite warm at the unexpected gesture, yet his eyes could not look away from Marco.  Jean watched as the blacksmith's son delicately raised the prince's hand to his lips.  This was something totally new to the prince--the whole manner of it being different than how it was customarily done.  

For starters, those paying their respects always knew it was the right hand that ought to be kissed.  And it was always done in the midst of a respectful bow.  The kiss was always a very brief, chaste, touching of lips to the royal person's signet ring.  And then the next person in line followed suit, and so on and so forth.  

Never had it been done like this, beginning with the wrong hand.  Never had someone lifted the prince's hand to their lips, and also done so without bowing.  Never had someone met his eyes and held them intently while getting closer to his fingers.  Never had someone actually kissed his skin, the pale flesh of his thin fingers.  Never had someone done it and let their lips linger.  Never had Jean blushed so furiously when it happened, words caught somewhere deep in his throat.

And never had Jean wished for someone to kiss his other fingers, the back of his palm, the curve of his cheek, the red of his lips--

"Your Royal Highness, we must not linger," Bertholdt reminded him, and it was enough of an interruption to break Marco's concentration.  The freckled teenager blinked a couple of times, and then lowered their clasped hands, finally releasing the prince's when both of their limbs hung loosely between them.  

Jean turned his head to the side to address the Princely Guard.  "One moment."  He needed to take a breath, and then his soft brown eyes looked to Marco once more.  He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  His brow furrowed in thought, and he struggled for a minute, unsure of what to say, what he wanted to say.

"Good day, Marco," he finally said in a rush, and then moved past Marco toward the gate.  The Princely Guard followed behind their prince, and as the gate opened before them, Jean looked back to where they had left the blacksmith's son.  He was still standing in the same spot as they left him, but he had turned to watch the prince leave. Jean saw what looked like a confused expression cross Marco's face, and he wondered what it could mean.  But then they were walking through the gate, leaving Stohess District behind.

Once they got closer to the castle, Reiner and Annie took their leave of their prince, the blond male handing Bertholdt the short sword.  Jean dismissed them, and they headed towards their barracks, most likely in need of some uninterrupted sleep.  He then sought out Juste as his father had directed him to, and Bertholdt handed over the sword.  The prince found that he didn't think it necessary to inform his father's servant about Eren and his friends, nor about Marco.  Juste simply nodded at Jean's brief narrative, his expression not changing throughout.  

But Jean did not yet return to his quarters.  He headed straight to see Baldoin, the master of their armory.  He found the older man examining some dented armor, tilting his head this way and that in order to observe the extent of the damage done to it.

"Your Royal Highness!" Baldoin exclaimed, a fond smile on his face.  "To what do I owe the honor of your presence?"  He clapped a hand on the prince's shoulder familiarly. 

"Sir, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something."

"Do ask, Your Highness."

"Would you be able to tell me where I might be able to procure some protective gloves for a blacksmith?"

 


End file.
